


The Taste of Streams and Bloodied Lips

by imaginaryfemaletrouble



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Half Norse Reader, Half-Saxon Reader, If Lagertha Had Won the Battle, plus sized reader, post-battle fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-06 16:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginaryfemaletrouble/pseuds/imaginaryfemaletrouble
Summary: You live in the forest not too far from the great battle between Lagertha and King Harald's armies.  In the forest, you find Ivar the Boneless injured and unarmed.  You don't know why, but you take him home with you.





	1. Chapter 1

             Chapter 1: Warrior in the Woods

 

              You lived alone, nestled deep within a place your mother always called the Misted Forest.  Nothing more than a shack hidden away in wooded depths.  Your mother, Oddrun, had run, bringing you here in her womb.  Circumstances with your father were too dangerous for her to stay.  You did not know much of the story.  Mere bits and pieces of why you were so important.  So special.  So different from the others.  You didn’t even know your father’s name, your mother taking that secret with her when she died. 

 

              It was a chilled morning when you’d first heard the cries of battle.  The clang of swords coming together.  It was distant.  Perhaps just over the western hillside.  You dropped the armful of firewood you’d been gathering, swiftly running to the safety of your home.  You tossed a bucket of water on the fire within.  It was not wise to keep it going.  A smoke trail could lead warriors to you, and all knew that Viking warriors had reputations for mistreatment of young women on their own. 

             The warring continued on for days after.  Curiosity tugged at your gut.  You wanted to crawl over the western hill and see what battle was being waged.  You wanted to count the numbers of fallen bodies accounting for the odor and metallic taste of blood hanging in the fog.  You did not sleep much, if at all.  The sword your mother left you clutched tight in your right hand as you huddled into the shack’s corner when night fell. 

             At last, silence encompassed the forest again.  You heard no signs of fighting.  No warriors’ chants.  You deemed it safe enough to investigate, so, sword in hand, you crept up the western hill.  You perched behind some trees at the top, surveying the abandoned battlefield.  Bloodied bodies lay strewn across the grass.  Some in one piece, others in several.  You recognized the shields of King Harald and Lagertha, Queen of Kattegat.  In the distance, you spotted the remains of war camps.  In a few days, once you were certain of safety, you would rummage through them to see what supplies they had to offer.  As you turned to go back home, your eyes caught movement to your left.  You peered through the trees and saw a warrior crawling on his belly.  He used his arms to pull himself forward through the damp soil and sodden leaves of the forest floor.  Pulling your sword from the sheath on your side, you snuck towards him.  You saw no signs of major injury.  Certainly not one that would render his legs so useless.  You studied his lower half for a moment.  The muscles in his calves and thighs were small and unused.  A cripple.  You thought of the stories your mother told you of the outside world after traveling to markets.  Aslaug, former queen of Kattegat bore a crippled son.  Ivar the Boneless some called him.  Though he had no use of his legs, he was not to be underestimated.  His cruelty knew no end, and his cunning made up for his lacking body.  You looked him over once again.  He had no weapons.  You cleared your throat, signaling your presence.  The warrior craned his neck to stare up at you, cerulean eyes narrowing in confusion.  You held your sword defensively in his direction.

              “Who are you?” you demanded.  He smirked, and you noticed the fullness of his lips. 

              “I am nobody.” 

              “You’re lying.  You’re Ivar.  Youngest son of Ragnar and Aslaug.”  You took a challenging step forward and he chuckled.

              “If you knew who I was, why did you even ask?”  He pushed himself up into a sitting position.  “Are you going to kill me?”  His eyes traveled down the length of your blade then back up to your own.  “If you are going to kill me, at least tell me your name.” 

              You sucked in a deep breath.  Really, you should kill him.  This man was a threat.  A large threat at that.  His name brought terror with it.  He was believed to have no conscience.  No concerns.  Nothing to keep him from killing in an instant.  But, even as your heart pounded fearfully in your chest, it did not feel right to plunge your sword through him.  Something at the back of your mind told you to keep him alive.

              “I am (y/n),” you replied, sheathing your blade.  He raised his eyebrows in slight surprise at the action.  You glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby.  “Come with me and I will bandage what wounds you have.”  You started off towards your shack and he followed, dragging himself behind you. 

 

 

 

 

              Ivar flinched as you pressed a wet cloth to the gash on his left shoulder.  You wiped gently at the caked-on blood.  Next to you, on the table, sat a small bowl of your own special salve.  Your mother, having once been a shieldmaiden tending to her own wounds, taught you how to make it.  Once you felt the gash was clean, you gingerly spread the salve over it and wrapped it in a dry piece of skirt you’d torn from an old dress. 

              “I could have killed you many times by now,” Ivar spoke, voice laced with amusement.  You barely had time to peek up at him before he leapt from the chair, pinning you to the floor beneath his weight.  His right hand settled on your throat.  He tightened his fingers and you swallowed thickly, preparing for the crushing grip that would stop your breath.  You did not struggle.  After a moment, his hand slid from your neck down to your stomach.  His eyes trailed over your form, and he furrowed his brow.  “You carry more weight than most women I have met.  You are soft.”  He got off of you and crawled back to the chair, hoisting himself back into it.  You sat up, rubbing at your neck.  Why hadn’t he choked you?  Why were you still alive?  You walked past him to the front door. 

              “I must gather herbs for dinner,” you whispered, slamming it shut behind you.    


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Distracting

 

             When you returned, the sky had already begun to grow dark.  You slipped silently into your home, setting the basket of herbs onto the table.  Ivar had moved to your bed.  He laid with his arms behind his head, glancing over when he saw you come in.  Rather than addressing him, you moved to the fireplace, working on it until heated orange flames flickered brightly.  Ivar’s eyes followed you across the room as you made your way back to the table.  You chopped at the herbs from the basket and dropped them into a pot. 

              “What are you making?” he asked.  You reached up and untied the dead rabbit you’d caught earlier that morning. 

              “A stew of rabbit, herbs, and vegetables from my garden.”  You quickly skinned the brownish hide from the animal and cut chunks of breast and thigh meat from the bone.  You set the pelt to the side.  You would save it for later.  Make part of a warm coat or hat with it.  The bones you tossed out the door.  Ivar scooted so he sat at the edge of your bed.

              “You live out here by yourself?”  You stopped chopping vegetables for a moment, training your (e/c) eyes on his silhouette. 

              “Yes.” You focused on the vegetables again.  “I used to live with my mother, but she died four years ago.” 

              Ivar cocked his head to the side. 

              “How did she die?”

              “Illness.  It came suddenly and took her just as quickly.”  You filled the pot with the rabbit, vegetables, and three ladles of water before hanging it above the cookfire.  You settled into a chair absently running your fingers through your (h/c) tresses.  Ivar studied you with his arms crossed.  You felt his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. 

              “Why didn’t you kill me?”  The question caught you off guard.  You shrugged.

              “Something inside me told me I shouldn’t.” 

              Ivar, seemingly satisfied with your answer, laid back onto the bed again.  He patted the furs thoughtfully.

              “You have only one bed.” 

              You crossed the room and stirred the stew, deciding it wasn’t yet thick enough to eat. 

              “I will sleep on the floor.  The bed is yours.” 

              “No.”  His voice was firm and steady.  He was sitting up again, eyes narrowed.  “I will sleep on the floor.  I am used to it.”  His face softened into something you couldn’t decipher.  “Besides, you are soft.  It would not be right for something as soft as you to sleep on the hard floor.  Soft needs soft.”  He followed your body with his eyes again.  Your cheeks heated, and you dropped your gaze to the shadows dancing across the floor. 

              “Alright,” you whispered. 

 

 

 

 

              Having finished eating, you busied yourself preparing a makeshift sleeping area on the floor for Ivar.  You spread two furs out onto the floor next to the bed.  Finished, you settled your hands at your hips with a grimace. 

              “It will have to do.” 

              Ivar shook his head and you could have sworn you saw him grin.

              “It will be fine, (y/n).  I have slept on far worse.”  He crawled to the furs and laid on his back.  You doused the cookfire with water, grabbed your mother’s blade, and slipped into the furs of your own bed.  You faced Ivar.  You weren’t foolish enough to put your back to him.  Not after the incident before dinner.  In the darkness, you barely made out the shape of his form.  It dawned on you that you wanted to ask him why he spared your life. 

              “Ivar?”  You heard the rustle of his clothes as he sat up on his elbows.

              “What is it?”

              “Why did you let me go earlier?  You could have killed me easily.”  You watched his silhouette crawl over as he pulled himself up into the bed.  You clutched your sword even tighter, unsure of what to expect.  Whatever it was you imagined, it certainly wasn’t the gentle brush of fingertips down the side of your face.  Ivar cupped your cheeks in his hands, running a thumb over your lower lip. 

              “I _was_ going to kill you, (y/n).  But, when I touched you…” His voice trailed off and he laughed.  You felt his breath tickle your nose.  “You’re so soft.  How can a person be so soft?”  His hand trailed down to your stomach and he lightly pressed into the pudgy flesh there.  “The women I have known aren’t like you.” 

              You weren’t sure what to do.  This man, this deadly man, had your back pressed to the wall.  He had you trapped with his hands mapping out the rolls of your belly.  You stiffened.  Would he use you?  It seemed he might.  Fear spread through your body, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.  You raised your blade to his throat.

              “I will not let you use me.”  Though you tried staying strict, your voice cracked.  Ivar shook his head.

              “I had no intentions of doing such a thing.”  His hands slipped from you, and you almost felt a bit upset about the loss of contact.  “I got carried away.  I am sorry.”

              You could hear the smirk in his tone, and you growled.

              “Go away from me.”  You squeaked when a pair of lips pressed lightly onto the tip of your nose. 

              “I will go,” Ivar muttered, returning to the furs on the floor.  You flopped over onto your back, heart hammering.  Minutes later, you heard soft snores.  He was asleep.  Sighing, you closed your eyes.  You felt safe enough to sleep, and you had your mother’s sword if he tried anything.  With one last glance around the shack, you drifted off to sleep. 

 

 

 

 

              You woke early the next morning.  Ivar still slept on the floor.  You watched him for a while.  He seemed so peaceful when he slept.  His cheek rested against his forearm, and his nose was nuzzled into the crook of his elbow.  You thought about the way he’d acted the night before.  The way he caressed your cheek.  Slipping from the bed, you laid down in front of him, studying his face.  Ivar was a handsome man.  From what you’d heard, all his brothers were, too.  There was a smudge of mud on his forehead, so you licked your thumb and went to wipe it off.  When your skin made contact, you were suddenly flipped, Ivar on top of you in a very similar way to the day before.  He blinked down at you a few times before chuckling. 

              “You must be more careful, (y/n).  I may have accidentally killed you.”  He brushed a few strands of (h/c) from your face.  “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”  This time, he was able to see the blush tinge your cheeks.  He leaned down and lightly kissed them both before letting you up. 

              “Why do you keep doing that?” you grumbled. 

              “You are very cute when you are flustered.”  Ivar grabbed your arm and tugged you towards him.  He pressed his forehead to yours, his bright blue eyes locking onto yours.  “(Y/n) I would very much like to kiss you.”  His eyes flickered to your lips for a moment.  Common sense fled you as you closed the distance between your mouths.  Ivar fisted a hand in your hair, tongue tracing the seam of your lips.  Rather than opening for him, you nipped at his lower lip with your teeth, pulling away.  He tried leaning in for another kiss, but you pushed him back firmly.

              “Stop trying to beguile me.” 

              Ivar laughed, shaking his head and burying his face into your shoulder. 

              “ _You_ are the one beguiling _me_ , (y/n).  With your soft flesh and pink cheeks.”

              Once again, you found your face heating.  Ivar playfully pecked a kiss to your throat, making you jerk back.  You avoided looking into his eyes and scrambled across the room, pressing your back to the wall, which was the wrong thing to do.  Ivar crawled with astounding speed, blocking you in and forcing you to his chest with strong arms.

              “Please, Ivar,” you whimpered.  He stilled and released his grasp.  You glanced up at him and saw he was scrutinizing your face. 

              “You do not enjoy this?” 

              The problem was that you did enjoy his embrace and kisses.  Too much.  Too quickly.  It was distracting.  You were forgetting to keep your guard up.  Forgetting how fatal Ivar could be.  You chewed on your lower lip, fist closing into the fabric at the front of his tunic. 

              “It is all happening too quickly,” you finally said.  Ivar set a hand on your shoulder.

              “Everything in my life happens quickly.  The things I do, I could die in battle tomorrow.”  He sat back, resting on the palms of his hands.  “I am sorry.” 

              You stood, brushing off your skirt. 

              “I need to set some traps.  I will be back soon.”  You left Ivar sitting in the center of the room. 


	3. Chapter 3

              Chapter 3: Leaving Home

 

              You were setting your snares at the base of the western hill when you heard shouts from the other side.  Creeping to the top, you saw a large group of men.  One hundred or so.  All warriors from the way they were dressed.  One stood at the front of the party, shouting to the rest.

              “We are to find Ivar and return him to King Harald!  He shouldn’t have gone far, being a cripple.  If you find him alive, you are to keep him alive.  If you find him dead, return with the body!” 

              So they were King Harald’s men, back to find Ivar.  You jogged back to your shack and came through the door breathlessly.  Ivar sat at the table.  He jerked his head up at your return, brow furrowed at your demeanor. 

              “What happened to you, woman?”

              “King Harald’s men have returned for you.  You can catch them if you are quick.” 

              Ivar’s eyes widened, and he focused them on the open door behind you.  He looked like a trapped animal.  A wolf with its leg caught in one of your snares.  Frantic.  Afraid. 

              “They cannot find me, (y/n).  Harald will have me killed.  Strung to the back of his horse and dragged until my arms tear from my shoulders.” 

              You cocked your head to the side, confused.

              “Why would King Harald want you dead?” 

              “I convinced him to battle Lagertha.  His brother fought for her.  He came to me the night before battle began, saying that if we were not victorious, he would make an example of me.  Harald killed his brother out there.  Halfdan is dead, and Harald is without his victory.  I believe he has sent his men to find me, so he may take his revenge.”  Ivar sucked his lower lip into his mouth, teeth worrying at the soft flesh.  You crossed the room, grabbed one of your large furs, and turned it hide side up.  You started collecting food items and other supplies, dropping it into the center of the fur.  Ivar stared at you.  “What are you doing?” 

              “If King Harald wants you dead, then we cannot stay here.  I’m packing supplies.”  Folding two coats inside, you brought up the corners of the fur, tying it with a rope.  You used another piece of rope to create a strap, slinging the makeshift sack over your shoulder.  “There is a cave not far from here.  It has many passages to get lost in.  My mother taught me the way through to the other opening.  Those men will take days to find their way out.” 

              Blue eyes studied you a moment.  Finally, Ivar nodded.

              “Alright.”  He slid from the chair, crawling forward.  “Show me.” 

              You shook your head, walking over and lifting the man from the floor.  He was heavy, but you were strong.  Years of living alone with no help for tasks made sure of that.  You wrapped an arm just under his shoulder blades.  You reached over and handed him a walking stick. 

              “The way to the cave is too rough for you to crawl.”  With Ivar at your side, the two of you left the shack.  You glanced over your shoulder at it.  A feeling in your chest told you that you would never see your home again.

 

 

 

 

              Once you’d reached the cave, you let Ivar back down to crawl.  You used the walking stick, wanting to keep it in case you needed it for him later.  You lit a small torch, cursing under your breath.  You worried the light and smoke would attract Harald’s warriors, but you needed it to traverse the maze of tunnels.  Ivar stayed close at your heels, and you found that the echo of his lower body scraping the cave floor was surprisingly soothing.  Hours passed, and you finally came to the opposite cave entrance.  Stepping out into the afternoon sun, you trained your (e/c) eyes to the south.  There was a small village not too far.  Three or four days journey, depending on whether the stream was too high to cross safely.  The land was nothing but thick woods, so it would be fairly easy to stay hidden during the trek.  Ivar’s fingers brushed your ankle, and you flinched.

              “Where do we go next?” he asked.  You looked down at him.

              “There’s a village a few days from here to the south.  We will go there.  For now, we will travel until the sun begins to sink.  Then, we will stop for the night.”  You began walking southward, Ivar following.  Another hour passed, and you stopped in a small clearing.  You dropped the walking stick and sack to the ground, plopping yourself into the grass.  Ivar sat next to you, flexing his hands.  You assumed they must be tired. 

              “I will build us a fire,” he said.  You grabbed his bicep as he leaned forward.

              “No fires.  They’ll spot a fire.”

              “The night will be too cold without a fire, woman! We will freeze.” 

              You clenched your jaw, squeezing Ivar’s arm in a warning.

              “I said there will be no fire.  We will make do without it.” 

              His eyes locked onto yours in a challenge.  When you did not falter, he knitted his brow and dropped his gaze. 

              “No fire.  I understand.”

              You opened your sack, handing him a coat before putting on your own.  You handed him a piece of cured rabbit and he took it gratefully.  The two of you chewed in silence, watching the sun disappear behind the horizon.  Ivar was right.  The darker it got, the colder it got.  You’d given Ivar the extra fur, thinking he needed it more than you.  You shivered when a breeze rustled through the trees.  An arm snaked around your waist and tugged you over.  You found yourself beneath the fur with Ivar.  You blushed and tried to pull away.

              “Ivar, what are you doing?” 

              He made an exasperated sound.

              “Keeping you warm, (y/n).”  His arm tightened around your waist.  “If we have no fire, we must find heat somehow.”  He turned to look at you, his breath ghosting over your cheek.  You peered up at through him through your lashes. Though it was dark, you thought you saw his lips quirk into a small smile.

              “Alright.”  You relaxed some, leaning against his side.  Somewhere, in the back of your brain, a voice screamed at you to stay cautious.  You couldn’t forget that Ivar was deadly.  No matter how plump his mouth or secure his arm, he was a threat.  But, no matter how loud that voice shouted, you didn’t listen.  In less than two days, you realized you no longer feared this man.  Logically, that thought disturbed you.  He was ready to squeeze the breath from your body just yesterday morning.  But he hadn’t.  You were still alive.  You were nestled against his warmth, and with your head pressed to his chest, you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart.  His hand trailed up as you were lost in your mind, fingers carding through your thick (h/c) hair.  Every so often, they got stuck in a tangle, and he gently worked through it. 

              “This needs braided,” he whispered against your ear.  “Perhaps I can help you with that in the morning.” 

              Your breath caught in your throat.  No one had braided your hair since your mother had died.  It was an intimate act.  Something done between close friends or family or _lovers_.  You swallowed, shoving your anxieties down.  He would be braiding your hair for necessity.  No, you were no longer afraid of him, but you would be foolish to let Ivar seduce you.  You still had too much to figure out.  What would become of home?  Where would you live?  What were you to do with him?  Against your cheek, his chest rose and fell with sleeping breaths.  The wind blew your hair about your face as you closed your eyes. 


End file.
